


Where Paper Swans Go

by Kiseki1412



Series: Crossings [3]
Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Deviates From Canon, F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2018-12-20 22:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11930253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiseki1412/pseuds/Kiseki1412
Summary: This is your love story and you were not in love. This is your fairytale, and you know fairytales always end badly.





	1. Tasogare (Dusk)

The first encounter is colored with shadow. You catch a glimpse of his profile through the blur of combat; he is a reckless young lad, and you watch him, half-hidden by ice and fire-brightened night. You take a closer look.

He fights like a tiger, agile and wary, with a lithe grace to his movements, and the unpredictability of a forge. In his hand he wields a smoldering dagger that bursts into a stream of red and yellow when provoked.

 _Fire._  Vinea's greatest enemy.

You want to stay, but Kou's precious magi is dying, and you want nothing to do with little brats, or defeated giants, or their tag team of blades and kicks. So you leave. You don't see his face clearly until your encounter at the palace.

When you meet him again, you find yourself bracing for a shouting match so wild, so furious, ending right where your woes have begun.

The third time, you are at the beach mincing heinous purple hair. It's the color of ground seashells, of royalty and dignity, and it does not belong on that disgusting king's head. Gold is no better; you've grown to despise Sinbad's cuffs and earrings, but Alibaba's sun blond mane, and the centers of plumeria flowers, are a completely different shade and you find comfort in that fact.

Sindria breaks your heart and pastes it back together. You part ways with a promise of friendship in the form of abalone-and-seaglass bracelets and strings of cone shells braided into your magenta locks.

You don't see each other for a year. You spend those months training with Vinea until you can single out every last droplet in a thirty-meter long water whip with a flick of your pinkie. Travelling abroad has been an eye-opener; you get tired of being useless and approach your brother Kouen for a chance to accompany him in his next battle. He looks neither shocked nor pleased, he does not laugh, and he  _does not_   _answer your question_. He makes you study architecture (which you hate). _"You should know the value of any structure you plan to blow up,"_ he says, and you blush, ashamed he figured out what you'd been up to on your unofficial vacation.

When you find time, you visit the market to discretely inquire about any rumors of young, blonde, amber-eyed gladiators in Reim. You listen to the bits of gossip the old folks shout at each other, but none of these fit Alibaba's description. You pick up a lot; a kind old widow teaches you how to haggle, how to tell when fruit is overripe, and where to get the best bargains. You learn the vendors' stories and the prices of all their food items. You watch the games the kids play on the street and you imagine climbing trees and riding wheelbarrows with a much younger Alibaba. You realize that you miss him. You realize that you've never missed anyone this much before. You realize that you never  _had_  anyone to miss before.

The fourth rendezvous is just as unexpected. You could never have imagined Alibaba and his blue-haired friend would show up above the smoking ruins of Magnostadt. "Kougyoku!" he cries in surprise, and his voice is deeper than you remember, but there's that unmistakable tuft of goldenrod atop his head, that intense determination on his face, and you're in Sindria all over again.

Right here, he is not a prince, and you are not a princess. You are two exhausted warriors weeding the sky.

You feel weightless in the aftermath. No less than the  _Imperial Crown Prince_  and the  _King of the Seven Seas_ commend your bravery, but it's Alibaba's "Great job, Kougyoku!" that makes your chest burst with relief. Finally, finally, your dream has come true: Kouen appoints you as his newest general and you giddily accept.

For six months, you strive to master the art of war, honing your technique and acquainting yourself with the highest-ranking officials of the army. By this time, the other generals are aware of your progress. You can take down an opponent within ten seconds of one-on-one combat or unleash two dozen waves with the lift of your sword. You think you will never again be treated as a political prisoner or a trophy wife.

You're wrong.

It breaks your heart when Koumei breaks the news of your upcoming marriage.

"Who is it?" you ask, seething with anger, with hurt. Your days of naïve dreaming are over. Your brothers don't need you anymore. They never wanted you and they never will. This is them squeezing you to the last drop.

He says two words:  _Alibaba Saluja._

You close your eyes in resignation.

 _So, the pauper prince gets to be with the illegitimate princess. Sounds like a fairytale_ , your sister says, with something darker than mockery in her kohl-smeared eyes. You get what this is about. It's her way of putting you in your place. Of reminding you  _what_  you are. You can tell she's jealous of your newfound attention, however superficial it may be. It shouldn't mean a thing because you're stronger now than you've ever been, strong enough to shed her words like the mat of tangles Ka Koubun lopped off when you were eight. Yet the thought makes your mouth go dry, turns your arms to scarecrow sticks. You know fairytales always end badly.

You go to Alibaba, and for the first time in memory, he doesn't want to talk to you. He's confused…and worried. He's being forced into this, just like you are. But there's nothing you can do. You can't call off the wedding. Can't set his country free. You promise your support because that's all you can give.

_We're friends, aren't we, Alibaba-chan? We promised to be there for each other, no matter what. Even this mess of a sham marriage can't change that._

He's breaking. You can see it — you see the walls tear off and all the shields fly into the wind. Someone's been pushing him down too much and he's going to drown if no one pulls him out. You want to be the one to reach for his hand. You, pawn and puppet, you want to save him. And then, just when he's about to open up, the chronic whirring in your ears takes over, and you lose yourself.

When you regain consciousness, you are in your room, just like the last time. "What happened?" you say, and the reply is "Nothing." And then, "I have to go." His eyes are cold; you realize that he's about to embark on one of those do-or-die ventures and nothing you do can stop him. The door creaks shut behind him and suddenly you're so, so scared and you don't know why.

You don't get any sleep until after the roosters wake everyone else.

The next thing you know is this: war is coming. A messenger arrives, pale-faced and out of breath. He leaves five minutes later, just as Kouen starts barking orders at his men. You don't hear a word. You're screaming, screaming,  _SCREAMING_  — because already the rest of the world has come crashing down.

It's not a fairytale. It's a tragedy.

_He's dead._


	2. Mayonaka (Midnight)

On the day of Kouen's staged execution, you lock yourself in your room and carve six grave markers into the century-old mahogany floor. One for Kouen. One for Koumei. Kouha. Judar. Alibaba. Someone named Kougyoku— whoever she was. You don't remember her.

You beg the International Alliance  _of Liars, Traitors, Cheaters, and Thieves_  to let you visit your brothers. Just one day — just one hour, you only need to see if they're alright.

The puppet council says no.

No, you are forbidden to set foot outside the capital. No, the price of political amnesty is to forget such a thing as family exists. You lay every sliver of pride at their feet and all you get is a unanimous, resounding,  _"NO!"_

 _Scoundrels. How dare they._  The only way to sneak out is by Vinea's help. But Sinbad's henchmen force you to surrender your metal vessel, cutting off any hope you ever had to redeem yourself. They've got you cornered, and you can't figure out why in the world they'd be concerned that such an insignificant creature as you might spark a rebellion when you can barely even look anyone in the face.

You lost the war because you were too weak to resist Zepar's power. You lost because you were too naïve. You lost Alibaba because you didn't even  _try_  to stop him from leaving. You wonder why Sinbad is not dead when the weight of his crimes should have buried him miles underground. Then again, you haven't drowned either...

Hakuryuu  _advises_  you to sever all ties to your siblings, lest you suffer a fate worse than theirs.  _I would rather,_  you spit out, expecting some form of punishment for disrespecting the emperor. You get none of those, just aftershocks of sheet lightning reflected in his eyes.

"I know," he says, eerily calm. "It's my fault. Everything is my fault.  Your brothers are gone. Judar is gone. I killed Alibaba. My fault. I know that. I do."

He looks like he's ready to end his life. And you don't care.

You return to your room to wallow in spit-stained clothes and torn blankets. Here there is no chance of running into Sinbad or that malevolent version of Hakuei. Here the air is stuffy but free of memories, and you can indulge in the unending daydream of solitary confinement. Every other part of this palace is a spooky place. The sunlight is blinding. The darkness is blinding. And everything is deathly quiet.

At night you dream of forget-me-nots and red spider lilies. You dream of your best friend. You dream you're watching the noisy long-tailed birds that nest among the palms lining the beach and he takes you to that part of the reef where sharks hunt their prey and you are not afraid. You play your guzheng as he chains together little red flowers. You paint autumn leaves and relearn the ancient dances, step by step and hand in hand; so many things that could have been but will never be. You wake up to the sight of a huge violet mantle in the dining hall and immediately throw it to the floor.

"Get rid of that! It's cursed! CURSED!" you shriek, burning eyes and rattling fingers, and why hasn't anyone punched Sinbad to death?

Everyone in the room is staring at you now, at the furious, pathetic you, and in their expressions they're kicking you and laughing and the soles of their boots drive into your shoulders as they spit on your face.  _Monsters_ , you chant over and over in your head.

The moment passes. They turn away. They don't see you anymore.

You see Hakuei — who is cannot possibly be Hakuei — smiling that sinister smile of hers, gloating over your fall from grace. You're beyond mad, beyond humiliated now as you rush forward, demanding  _why_ ,  _why_ , where is that Hakuei who would never betray Kouen, that Hakuei you leaned on for support when both your legs were burned and your magoi sucked out? You charge at her, hoping a good shaking would bring her back to her senses, but her eyes narrow into slits and suddenly your feet won't move.  _Fool_ , you hear her whisper, and your fingers tingle with the same overpowering terror you felt at Magnostadt. This time there's no one, not your brothers, not Judar, and certainly not Alibaba, to help you up. You're on your own.

You stand up eventually. You drag yourself to the kitchen and stuff your belly with five whole loaves of bread. You don't think. Can't think. Not anymore. You sit there blankly, cramming, chewing, swallowing. Over and over. And when the last crumbs have disappeared you run to the nearest courtyard and empty your stomach till your throat burns and your tears are indistinguishable from the sweat pouring down your forehead.

It gets worse when the sun abandons you. You tear through the closet for the largest blanket you can find and bury yourself under it. You curl into a ball and toss and turn and sob and shiver and you don't get a wink of sleep tonight.

The next morning is meeting a forlorn Aladdin and being too exhausted to say anything. You'd rather pass him by, but this is your best friend's best friend. You can't just leave him like that.

You stay. He doesn't say much; you don't say much. You sit there and not tell and not ask him things. He sits there and looks everywhere, not hearing and not answering. It's easy companionship. You're both grieving. You understand his guilt and he understands yours.

The hour passes; you've had your fill of silence and move to get up, tipsy feet and the sky spinning, and somehow you'll wander off somewhere and not heave last night's supper on the way, but then he speaks and you have to listen.

"I couldn't bring Alibaba back."

You keep your mouth shut. You don't want to remember. You don't want to think.

"Judar, too. I'm sorry, I had no choice."

_Enough of this. Stop._

The memories are coming. You push them away. You can't let yourself remember. You won't.

"Can you forgive me?"

Do you  _want_  to forgive him? No. These are the things you want: You want to shake him so hard that his neck cracks. You want to pull off every offending strand on his head until he bleeds from every inch of his scalp. You want to grab all that rukh under his command and scream at them to find Alibaba. You want to kneel and beg him to save the world, because  _isn't that what a magi is for?_

_Isn't it?_

Apparently not. You realize at last, after the war and after the devastation, that magi are powerful and useless creatures with a meaningless existence. They belong to the rukh that binds the world and tears it apart. They are not your saviors.

This is the truth. You throw it back at him. You want no part in this game of destiny anymore.

"You're no magi. You're just a little boy."

You walk away, light and heavy all at once. You make it to the palace steps. You're wobbling now. In front is a memory, another torturous memory, Alibaba leading you down the stairs with firefly lanterns. You give up. You collapse to your knees and you cry and you cry and you cry very, very hard.

There is no Alibaba in this place. No one will listen to the anguished ranting of unimportant, half-blood royalty. So you talk to the flowers instead. Each afternoon you bring two cups of tea to the garden and you drink one and pour the other into the ground. You braid flowers until there's not a single bloom left.

 _Princess_ , Ka Koubun, pleads, he begs, like the squeak of dungeon locks. You assure him that you're fine, not to worry, you are only planting a flower garden, hence the gashes on your arms and the shine of mud on your cheek. You can tell he's beginning to doubt your sanity and you laugh in secret.

Among the bushes, hidden by piles of fallen branches, you are digging a pit, a secret tunnel all the way to Alibaba's soul. It's trapped away somewhere beyond this world, and you'll be the one to find it. You dig and you dig until your spade meets adobe. You  _claw_  at it, ripping your nails off, knifing slivers of red down your charcoal-pasted fingers. The skin on your palm is raw and blistered in vain and you hate, _hate_  the bedrock that remains unmoved by your wails.

Someone does hear. Hakuryuu. You don't expect the new emperor to visit the mulberry grove, but he's there, slumped beside a rotting log, oblivious to the fire ants tracing a line on his forehead. The last time you saw him here was five…six years ago when you brought Kouha to help you gather peaches.

There's a huge peach tree towards the south end, the old, windswept one Judar loved so much. You remember playing under its branches, looking up to see a thick black coil draped among the leaves like a like a python. Gone is the magi's playground now, in its place an overgrowth of weeds imprison a mushroom-infested stump. Another casualty of war. Hakuryuu's war. Yes, he was the catalyst. He caused this mess. You should hate him.

"What are you doing here?" you snap. He deserves your hatred, and so much more. He's evil, cruel, selfish—he has no right to be here, no right to steal this precious place.

"The view is nice," he says. He means  _peaceful_. He means  _Judar was here._

You can see the misery in those dull eyes. Kou fell and he's paying for it. He's trying to save what's left and you can't hate him for trying. He misses Judar and you miss Judar and he blames himself for what he did to your brothers and you blame yourself for what you did to your brothers and you both wish Alibaba were here. You promise you won't make the same mistakes he did. That when the time comes to exact revenge on Sinbad, you won't regret it.

"I'm going to plant a tree," you announce. You don't know what on earth made you say this—maybe you've finally gone mad—but Hakuryuu nods and stands up.

"Alright," he says. "I'll get some seeds." You watch dumbly as he walks away and returns with a handful of peach pits and a spade. He digs several holes in the ground and you drop each seed in and cover it up with loose dirt. You head to the palace together with matching soil-encrusted hands and it's the closest to a truce you'll ever get.

You enter the courtyard in silence. Hakuryuu reminds you of Alibaba. No,  _everything_  reminds you of Alibaba. Alibaba in the fireflies, Alibaba in the soldiers. Alibaba in the children playing, Alibaba in the servants, in the merchants, in the rebellions, in the flowers. You lost Alibaba. You won't make that mistake with Hakuryuu. You can't allow yourself any more mistakes.

When Sinbad shows up, you flash him the most brilliant rotten smile you can contort your mouth into. And when Aladdin asks if you're alright, your teeth are on the verge of falling out. But you tell them all the lies they need to hear, you tell them that you're fine and you dance on needles every night.

One day Aladdin offers you a perfect bouquet of frost roses and it reminds you so much of what you've lost that you're up all night for a week. Then you're sick and Ka Koubun inquires how you're feeling and you curl your fists under the covers because your brothers are in exile and your precious friends are dead.

"It's not over yet," Aladdin reminds you. "As long as Alibaba-kun's body is safe in the Great Rift, there remains a chance that he may return to us. Alibaba-kun is no ordinary person. Whatever it takes, he'll find a way back. I just know he will." He says with so much faith that you just want to believe.

Want to. Doesn't mean you can. You still wake up crying and you still talk to shadows. You've memorized your nightmares by now and yet your mind invents a new one each week.

The months go by, plunging Kou deeper into financial crisis. You resolve not to be an added burden. So you hang your heart behind the mirror and do your best to keep the palace in order in whatever way you can. You trudge on, past the spiders in the hallway and the silence of the rooms, one step, another step, through the falseness of it all. Because a promise is a promise, even if the person you swore it to is gone.

You try to live. You try to feed pigeons and fail at it. Their grey-tipped wings beat away when you approach, much like how the three princes' loyal retainers greet you with cold glares when they sidestep you in the corridors. But the chickens like you. The chickens forgive you. When Hakuryuu asks how you're doing, you conveniently forget to mention how you keep tabs on thirty speckled hens to keep sane.

You're not healing, but you're walking, and that's enough for now.

Soon it's the anniversary of Alibaba's death—departure, exile, whatever you call it. Hakuryuu and Morgiana stand before his memorial, and kneeling on the ground is his faithful magi. It's a simple affair drenched in rain. Maybe Vinea's mourning his loss like you are. Maybe the downpour is a magi's sorrow. You help Aladdin arrange camellias on the mud and try not to think of another magi.

Aladdin thanks you afterward. You take the opportunity to apologize for what you did to Ugo and he forgives you, sincerely, genuinely. He's a good friend. He's nothing like Sinbad, the king of cunning and cruelty—Sinbad, the coral that cuts deep into every step. He's different from Judar, the boy who flew round and round the world and never came back. But that's not enough. You want  _him_  back. You want Alibaba with his sunbirds and cockatoos and caricatures in the sand. You want bright eyes and silly laughter, all those ridiculous jokes that made you look like a pair of fools. You miss him more than you should, and you fear you know why.

It couldn't be, could it? You couldn't be—

It doesn't matter. It's too late. The hero of this story is lost forever and the princess would rather have ever-after cease to exist.

Once upon a time, the world exploded. One day, it explodes again.

The day you see a floating island with your own eyes is the day the last prince is chased out of Rakushou. You rush towards the commotion to find Hakuryuu in full body equip and a severely injured Aladdin hovering overhead.

"They've made their move," Hakuryuu gasps. "That woman…I thought I killed her for good!"

"What woman…who—"

"They're going to kill Aladdin. We have to leave. Now!"

"Wh-where are you going?"

He tells you. He actually tells you. He makes you swear the most secret of secret oaths. The woman who is not his sister, that woman with the late empress' pit viper eyes, who made Al Thamen her puppets and Judar her slave, has connived with Sinbad to eradicate the last threat to their plans. You can barely comprehend what's happening, and you don't want Aladdin to die, so you bid your cousin goodbye and return to your room and watch as the teacup slips from your shaking fingers.

Hakuryuu flees with Aladdin and Morgiana, leaving you on the ghastly metal throne. Believe it or not, you're the most powerful person in Kou now. You're the empress. You're the empress and Kou is a mess and the palace is too empty and you're so close to losing that tiny, fragile hope that your beloved friend will ever come back.

This is a fairytale, you remind yourself. No one ever said endings had to be good, or ever make sense.

On the eve of your coronation, you climb a tree and carve your name into its trunk. K-O-U-G-Y-O-K-U. From now on, you shall be "Her Majesty" and you will forget who you are, but the scarred bark will always remember. You give away all your princess dresses except two: the one Kouen surprised you with on your birthday, and the one you wore when Alibaba dared you to go crab catching with your bare hands. You dust off your guzheng and pluck the first notes of an ode to faded stars.

If only Alibaba could be here _._ If only, if only, if only _._ He'd say, "You can do it, Kougyoku!" "Don't worry, Kougyoku, you're doing great!"

_Let's be friends, Kougyoku!_

_You're amazing, Kougyoku!_

_I'll help you, Kougyoku!_

_See you soon, Kougyoku!_

_Kougyoku!_

They say when you lose a friend, you lose a favorite song. You lost  _all_ your songs. It's impossible to play when your fingers cannot remember anything. You unstring your _guzheng_ and put it away. One day, when everyone comes back—if anyone comes back—maybe then you'll be able to touch it again. For now you seal it with the past, and that past is to be forgotten.

You do remember your promise to protect your people. You'll lead them, even if you don't know where, even if you don't know how, even if this is completely different from what you thought you were born for. Though you fall and fall and fall harder, you keep holding on because you promised. And you don't break promises in Kou.

When you hear rumors of a traveller with scars on his arm and a flying mop, you burst into tears of relief. You know how embarrassing it is to faint before the whole court, but that doesn't stop you from grabbing one of the posts and hanging on for dear life. Right now—

"KOUGYOKU! I heard you became empress! Hey, it's me, Alibaba! I'm back from the ends of the earth and I came here to see you!"

Okay. Deep breaths. Seems the story's not over yet.


	3. Akatsuki

It's been three years and a lifetime ago. But as he fidgets in his seat you remember, all the things you made yourself forget. Balbadd, Magnostadt, Sindria … you close your eyes and think back, past the wars and partings, back when you didn't know how fragile happiness was, when dreams were the overflow of youth and freedom buzzing in your veins and promises were made because you had yet to realize how easily they could be broken.

You were both little more than children. Kou was still magnificent, feared, respected, and you could stare at your reflection for a full two hours without needing to smash the mirror into a thousand pinhead daggers. Home was intact, and by extension, so were you.

What you are  _now_ , is a porcelain doll with straw ribs and sand arms glued upside-down on a torso of ice. And your skin, it's an ashen stretch of caked diamond eggshell stardust that flakes off in your sleep.

It's ironic that when you finally meet him,  _you're_  the one who could pass off for a specter from the land of the dead.

Your breath screams into the room. It's so quiet, neither of you is ready to speak, and this is the absolute worst welcome you have ever given anyone.

And you could have just stayed in bed all day.

 _Why_  didn't you stay in bed?

Because. You're the empress. Empresses do not hide in their rooms when their countries are on the brink of ruin. Empresses do not run away.

That's why.

(Empresses usually aren't brainwashed by their crushes or considered national traitors, but the world is falling apart anyway so you let this observation slide for now.)

_"Kougyoku?"_

A spasm shoot up your leg when you realize Alibaba's talking to you. His voice is beautiful when he calls your name with no epithets attached, tone soft with worry or fondness or some emotion you can't figure out, and you swear you'd give everything to reset the convoluted sequence of your lives to that idyllic afternoon he nearly stepped on your fingers.

(There's a dried clover wreath in a glass frame beside your bed to remind you of this fact.)

 _"How are you, Kougyoku?"_  he asks. You know he's not referring to the state of the economy, or the lack of an actual military, or the hundred thousand problems baffling the government right now.

You answer, _"I don't know."_  He brings up the war, the one thing you're avoiding. The next thing he says—

 _"Sorry_."

(You don't need this.)

(It doesn't change anything.)

He knew about Zepar. And he never told you. Not a hint or a warning or a " _Kougyoku have you been feeling strange lately?_ Absolutely  _nothing_ , and it should hurt more than it already does, but some weak-childish-broken-stupid-hopeful part of you that should already have been stamped out by everything from failed arranged marriages to Sinbad's mind-manipulation instinctively chooses to trust him.

Not like you have any faith in anyone else, anymore. You write this off as a perfectly typical consequence of civil war.

_"So, Alibaba-chan, where have you been all this time?"_

_"You mean, since my soul got blasted into Alma Torran or since we last met?"_

_"Since…before that."_

_"You sound lonely, Kougyoku."_

Well of course you are. Lonely. Broken. Everything. What did he  _think_? That your home is an avalanche in suspended motion and you're fine? That life-changing catastrophes are not by definition indelible and getting dressed and fixing your hair means you're okay?

Oh, right. He  _didn't_  think. He just nearly got himself killed and vanished off the face of the earth for three years, is all.

You still blame him for that. Because people with secret handshakes, who rescue each other's heartbeats, who charge in shrieking towards gardens and monsters together — they don't just leave, don't just disappear, don't just die. They  _stay_ , and he didn't.

He left you.

 _Let's be friends_ , he said the very first time your clammy fingers slipped into his palm. There were dried-up tears on your cheeks and petals on your lap and you thought that kind of beauty would last forever. You were much, much younger then, so when the first hint of darkness crept past your eyelids you thought it was the end.

But you're no longer the little princess who squeezes herself between silkscreens and throws peaches when she's mad. Grown up girls have found other ways to hide, other ways not to hurt. You're born of fire and blood now, ice and steel and everything reforged by battle. You've been to the end of the world and back. You're still alive, and you're conscious of at least this one truth:

It wasn't betrayal. He wasn't betraying you. You know what a big fan of Sinbad he is — you were no less blinded — for someone who had only ever been so good and  _magnanimous_  to suddenly change colors like that would have been overwhelming to take in. So he did what he thought he should to save his country (since he couldn't save you). You understand how it felt because war made a monster out of you too. His fists shake with festered guilt, and the moment he divulges the past like an awful truth, you find that what you wish to offer is not forgiveness but gratitude.

 _"I couldn't hate you. Maybe I should have. But I didn't,"_ you confess.

It's been three years and too many regrets for a lifetime, and you still consider him your closest friend.

 _"Tell me,"_  you say, and you breathe and you feel and you sigh.  _"Tell me everything." Tell me what you could not, tell me what you would have, every tiny scrap of memory that doesn't mean a thing anymore and hasn't for a long time. Tell me because I've always wanted to listen, because losing people means losing voices, and my ears are almost deaf._

 _"It was dark,"_ he says, _"and weird. I thought I'd go crazy. Maybe at some point I did. Judar was — Judar was — I can't believe I miss that stupid, pushy, helpless brat!"_ There are tears leaking from his eyes, mixing with laughter, overflowing with relief. He is so, so happy to be home at last.

The conversation shifts to something lighter. You ask him all the questions no one needs answers for, like how many king candidates does it take to plant a forest in the middle of the desert? Or if magi were named after seasons, which one would they be? Alibaba claims Judar's best match is summer, but to you he's the epitome of spring, so for the next hour you find yourself caught up in an animated discussion of his attributes, including but not limited to: Judar's favorite food (basically anything that isn't mutant-plant-based fits the bill), favorite clothes (moot point, obviously), top ten places he might actually be hiding right now ( _under a peach tree_ , both of you blurt out at once), how far he can hurl a pebble with his left hand (no magic involved), what he looks like with his hair shaved off (Alibaba's idea; you don't even try to imagine it), and so on.

_"Too bad he didn't show up. I swear the very first thing I planned to do when I got back was to bribe a winged shark to hang out in his bedroom."_

_"I wish Judar-chan were here. Once, when we were a lot younger, he said if he concentrated really hard, he could even freeze time."_

_"And you believed him?"_

_"Hey! I was just a kid back then! How was I to know he was making fun of me?"_

_"Is there ever a time Judar_ isn't _making fun of people?"_

_"But…this is different! I was a princess. Boys shouldn't do that to a princess."_

_"You know Judar. Stuff like kings and queens and princes and princesses don't count unless they can swing around metal vessels and bring down the entire universe."_

_"Or peaches, maybe."_

_"Or peaches."_

He tells you of giant potato heads and oceans of quicksand in an elusive monochrome world. He talks about the depth and breadth of darkness, and the hundred intonations of a freaked-out magi's voice. You learn that he's been all alone for a century and by now only the strictest rules of court propriety keep you from embracing him on the spot.

He promises to stay this time and you thank him.

You realize you've both grown up.

* * *

The days fly and you hear yourself laugh. It sounds so foreign, so wrong that very first time, that the shock running through your body conjures a flashback of mutilated arms and punctured eyeballs and screaming…and  _screaming_  and an incoming wave of nausea forces you to immediately clamp your mouth shut to keep yourself from throwing up.

But one by one the visions fade. The nights grow calmer, and you are dancing, you are painting, you are hugging your guzheng. And Alibaba, your best friend Alibaba, not-dead and not-comatose Alibaba, sweeps the whole court into action: to the library, and back, the courtyard, then the barracks, meetings here and there, morning runs, visits from the merchants — it's frantic, everything — council meetings at breakfast, no time to powder your cheeks, and soon the hallways are filled, the soldiers resume training, everything's returning to normal as step by step he cracks the shell you built around yourself and reintroduces himself into your life. This time it's not neutral ground, he is in your home, your shattered home; he sees you reduced to this, to hating a country for its double-faced ruler, to not knowing and not being able. But it's okay because beneath it all, he is Alibaba and you are Kougyoku, half-bloods and kindred souls, and you watch enthralled as he slips determinedly into his role of Interim Prime Minister in a ghost town where burgundy silk draperies have been replaced with cheap linen.

In the midst of it all, he searches for Aladdin.

You keep your lips sealed. You look away.

If hiding the truth is what it takes to keep everyone alive, then you will never say a word, even to the one who needs it the most, even to  _him_. You tell yourself it's for the better good, that you're not being clingy, that the trembling in your chest is not loneliness, and you repeat and repeat and repeat.

It occurs to you that maybe in someone else's story you're one of the villains.

* * *

Fourteen days after Alibaba's return, you begin picking up the fragments of yourself. You find some in the ancient scrolls in the library where you once fell asleep on Kouen's knee, in the corridors you tiptoed through at night, the beaten path through the flowerbeds, in the storage room, under the trees. They look like water, they sound like bells, and each piece says, _Kougyoku, Kougyoku, grow up, will you?_

The new moon comes before you realize it, an infinite veil over the courtyard sundial like the key to a puzzle that's been haunting you far too long. And then something clicks in your mind: it has been a month, it has been a whole  _month_ , and you have a deadline to beat. You wasted too much time and now it's all catching up to you like the sensation of hurtling towards a fifty-foot drop with the only cushion being the rush of water in your ears.

So everyday you rip the covers off and prepare to work. Everyday you chuck your pillow at the wall for a solid three minutes and scold the egrets on the folding screen. You call the four bedposts to attention and inform them of the day's events, and they listen, yes they do, but they don't say anything, so you scream at them for playing deaf. Then you shake your head and give your pillow a gentle pat and tuck it in for the day. One final warning to everything to behave while you're gone, and the door slides shut with a promise to await your return. You step outside and feel the sun peek at your ankles, and you think,  _Okay._  And you come back with tears stinging the corners of your eyes because  _this does not work and that does not work and that is not how it works!_

(By the way, there really ought to be a masterlist of What Do When Faced With Such-and-Such-Situations: A Compilation for Future Emperors and Empresses Who Know Next to Nothing About Managing a Throne.)

"You have to talk to the people," Alibaba reminds you. "You're their leader. It has to be you."

By  _talking_ , he means giving a public address at the capital square. Which is something you've never done before, never want to do, and really have no business doing. Period. You've already run out of record books to keep track of your mistakes. There's absolutely no need to add a failure of a speech to the list.

"So what?" he asks, looking  _incredulous_ , as if this were something you've been meant for all along.  _Impossible_ ; this can't be destiny — it is not  _your_ destiny — you just happen to be the one unfortunate soul in the empire who was stuck wearing the royal crown today ... you don't want this, you're not even sure you can.

All you know is there's a time for running away and this is not it.

"Will you, Kougyoku?" he asks again. You go  _deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, breathe. Deep breath, deep breath, breathe._  You're scared, okay, you're  _scared._

It took courage to be a warrior. It takes courage to be a leader.

_(Okay.)_

What surprises you the most isn't the mumbled  _yes_  you offer in reply, but the lack of regret you feel afterward.  _Yes_ , you'll see this through, because one day you want to be able to live with yourself. Because one day you want to say there's something you didn't do only because Kouen would have, too.

So you will forge a path, a new path, a  _we-don't-know-what's-going-on-but-we-keep-going_  set of footprints on the economic map. You will get a hammer and a pack of nails if you need to. You'll reclaim those callouses on your fingers and make them stay. You'll dig into the ground with a rust-eaten sword if that's the last thing you do. And though you don't know the first thing about establishing a merchant guild, or setting up trading outposts, even if you seriously doubt whether hired labor can ever replace institutionalized slavery and how a nation like Kou, whose very foundation was born out of the throes of conflict, can survive this change, you take that first plunge of faith and hope the water will be kind.

When all else fails, there's always the ocean. As long as there's fish in the waters, your people will not go hungry.

"We can't lose to Reim," you say to Ka Koubun as you finish touching up your final draft. "If Reim can adapt, then so can we."

Perhaps in retrospect you'll tell yourself how crazy that sounds. But right now you think,  _this is it._  You want a country where the ordinary man can enjoy the fruits of his labor and raise his family in peace. This you will work for; this you will  _fight_ for.

There will be issues of course. Things like, reforms in the bureaucracy, citizens' rights, lifted restrictions on trade. It's a risk to lower taxes when you can afford to lose nothing. The stakes are higher, your people distrust you, just a couple of months ago you were virtually bankrupt, and hardly any governor would be willing to embrace this new wave of thought. Yet something tells you that you'll get by somehow. Sure, you'll be fighting tooth and nail to get anywhere, but isn't that what you've been doing all your life?

"We can start with the airfleet," someone suggests.

"Or the navy," adds another.

"But most of the ships are gone!"

"The warships, yes, but there are merchant vessels we can work with."

"I say we find a pair of oxen and get to work!"

"You mean  _fifty_  pairs of oxen."

"Five hundred."

"Donkeys, too! Since we sold our finest horses to pay off some of our debt."

"Water buffaloes."

"And ca—"

"Don't! Don't say it! We are not wasting money on  _camels_ , you silly desert boy!"

"Would you rather acquire a herd of elephants? Or perhaps you'd enjoy pulling a rickshaw yourself, Ka Koubun?"

"I'll have you know that  _I_  was helping pull rickshaws when I was  _twelve_!"

"I built a twenty-foot high sand fort at five years old."

"And what does that have to do with anything?!"

Their fit of ridiculousness drags on to your amusement; you roll your eyes and roll with the flow. And when the bickering settles down… _finally_  settles down…when Alibaba and Ka Koubun are on opposite ends of the room and the other occupants are covering their faces in mortification, you lay your scepter on the table and take a calming breath.

"The sky, the land, the sea — everything's a mess. And so we shall rebuild. Who's with me?"

You have an audience of five people, and every one of them believes you.

* * *

The night before your speech is quiet. "I wish I could give you peaches," Alibaba says. But he has a small package of sun-dried bananas that you split in half while counting fireflies by the bridge.

The moon shines ominously bright as he accompanies you to the Hall of Memory to burn incense. Belatedly you realize that you forgot to bring a lamp and when you mention it to Alibaba, he merely reaches into his pocket to place two stones on your palm. The flint sparks after three tries, and soon flames from six braziers are casting shadows on the roster of paintings on the wall.

Hakutoku, founder of Kou; Koutoku, expander of Kou. Gyokuen, Kouen, Hakuryuu. And now, you. The last princess, the half-blood heir who never stood a chance and would never have been here if civil war hadn't torn the kingdom in half.

Five stern faces, and you don't need to look to know which one caught Alibaba's attention. He rests his fist gently, reverently — regretfully, even — against the likeness of a peach tree in bloom. "You weren't the only one who failed," he says, in little more than a whisper. The candlelight flickers hot and orange on his face, transforming his profile from the smiling boy in the moonlight palette just a while ago. "I did my best to stop Hakuryuu. Just like how I tried to stop Cassim. But in the end, this was bigger than both of us."

"And so?"

"And so here we are. We got a second chance. Maybe this time we can do something."

 _Maybe,_ because he has no more promises to give and you've seen enough to know the only thing that counts is that you're in this together.

"I'm tired of war," you say, wiping dust off the scabbard of Kouen's sword. "I wish we'd just stop breaking things."

"Yeah," he agrees. "Me too."

Dawn breaks the next day on the wings of sparrows and the one persistent lizard that went sledding down your face. The sun climbs higher and higher and when it reaches its peak, you ascend the platform and hush the crowd into silence.

With the memory of the old world fading, you stand before your people to guide them. "We will make Kou great again," you declare before tens of thousands in the mightiest voice you can squeeze from your lungs. "And we will fight for it together!"

This time you believe. Because greatness…greatness is not the military, not the labor force, not the massive amount of colonies acquired through war.

"Let us be known as a nation where every man is free."

_And happy._

You look up and see faces in feathered skies.

* * *

They say the ocean never runs away. When it retreats, it comes back with a vengeance. There are no exceptions.

When you see Koumei in his ridiculous mask, you fight the urge to kneel.  _It's my fault, all my fault;_  you bite back a million apologies because you're in public and you can't risk exposing his identity, even to your closest advisers. His eyes are sad and gentle and the shadows on his face are proof that he shoulders the blame as much as you do.

You'll probably never forgive yourself for your role in Kou's demise, but the die was cast, and for better or worse, you have no choice but to accept your lot.

Koumei fills you in on the past three years. He says that Kouen is writing a book, and Kouha is faring well with sardines for breakfast, lunch, and supper. You think that maybe Kouha loves fish because the stench of offal tastes infinitely better than the punching croaks of an empty gut.

Alibaba dubs him  _Chief Counsel, Master of Warfare, and Kou's Secret Weapon, Three-in-One Because He's Awesome_. Koumei frowns at the absurd length of his new title, and Alibaba, surprisingly, just laughs at his expense. You suspect two years of travelling with Judar have left their mark on him far more than he can stand to admit.

 _They'll all be coming home soon,_ he assures you. Wherever he gets his confidence (lifetime imprisonment is supposed to last a  _whole_  lifetime), you have no idea.

You still don't tell him about Aladdin, and each day you're regretting it more.

* * *

There are so many ways of growing up, you know now. Sometimes it feels like falling. Sometimes you walk through months and months that lead to nowhere. And waiting. A lot of waiting. You still don't know what to do. And you're still trying.

The day Alibaba announces his departure for Balbadd, you excuse yourself and head to the nearest looking-glass. You wash off all the fakeness on your face and reapply the colors perfectly. The process takes a full three hours.

Thankfully technology has progressed to the point where he can bring a shell communication device on his trip. (He claims you were the one who forced him to pack it in his knapsack. You don't remember saying this, but you may or may not have threatened to shove it down his throat otherwise.)

You worry of course. He will be returning as the envoy of the nation that ruined his homeland. You do not want him to deal with the consequences of your mistakes.

Koumei predicts that there are probably a handful of familiar faces left in the old palace who will accept him as their prince, and that if not, it will be nothing but a minor inconvenience. Alibaba never considered himself royalty, not before his mother's death, not in his days of wandering the streets, and certainly not now. A king vessel, a merchant, soldier, storyteller – he is many things to the people he's met on his travels. To you, he is half the soul, twice the sun, and all of the ocean.

Tomorrow he embarks on a mission to save Kou. Your best friend will be going away and you'll be lonely again and you hate loneliness and in some irrational way you hate him for leaving.

You almost beg him to stay.

_I don't want to lose you again._

But he was never yours to lose, he was never yours to keep. You are empress of Kou and you know that all true monarchs ripped their own hearts out in their mother's wombs. You have no right to dream such silly, romantic, firefly-tinged dreams. Just look where your stupid crush on Sinbad got you.

As a princess, you might have had a chance. But now you are the empress, you are your people, you are not yourself anymore. You wish you could make it work;  _he_  could surely find a way to make it work, despite what every living soul on the planet and every page of the royal code says otherwise — this guy wasn't called Wonderman Alibaba for nothing — but he has  _her_. An ordinary girl, a strong girl, who cried over his death in ways you could not, who flew to the ends of the world for a chance to save him while you were busy holding yourself together at the war council briefing; brave enough to keep the man who killed her love from taking his own life as you were falling and falling apart (like a child — like a  _baby_ ). An uncomplicated, beautiful girl, and…and he likes her. You know he likes her. Hakuryuu was smitten, so is Alibaba. He built a sparkling shrine in his heart and it belongs to the fanalis who dances on fire whips and rips apart tigers. You occupy a tiny piece of it, a tiny door or window, and wish it would be enough.

It's not.

But it is what it is. You cannot squeeze anymore of yourself into his life. You don't want to intrude, you don't want to owe him more. He looks young and carefree and the flecks on his irises dazzle when he speaks of her, so you close the door and look in the mirror, rub off your encrusted face paint, and glare at undisguised shadows under your eyes.

And when one day he comes to you asking,  _how do you propose to a girl,_ it doesn't surprise you.

"I think your friend (you don't say  _Morgiana-chan_ ) would like roses," is what comes out of your lips, and thankfully, they don't quiver or crack off the way your lungs do right now.

He contemplates your advice for a moment and then grins, wide and clear and beautiful.

You wonder if this might simply be a case of misplaced gratitude. Maybe you're just so relieved to have someone back.

_Someone to hang out with, someone to come home to._

Sounds nice except it's not for you.

So you wait. If Alibaba does ask her to be his wife, you plan to invite your cousin on a three-day vacation at the mountainside. Rumors say hot springs can do wonders for broken hearts.

It's a happy ending, isn't it? This is a fairytale, after all, and everyone gets the reward he deserves.

You search for yours.

* * *

There's a prickle in the air that comes with bare feet and a black choli. It's the lingering scent after lightning, the premonition of thunderstorms, one that Hakuryuu carries sometimes. Though stripped of magi status, gusts of wind tense in remembrance, splashing orchard colors like molted feathers.

Bad weather and missing peaches. That's him alright.

"Judar-chan."

"Yo. Old Hag."

It's obvious you're not the one he's looking for. So you inform him that your cousin is stuck balancing accounts and stifle a giggle when he squints.

"He's taking too long."

"He's working hard," you say.

"It's boring without Hakuryuu."

He's not here for you. You accept that.

Maybe if you didn't hesitate back then, if you weren't too torn-up inside to take a chance, if you had opted to be his king and his pawn against Al Thamen...maybe you wouldn't have drifted apart, and there'd be nothing to ignite a civil war, and you could finally call each other friends.

But you made your choice. You cannot rewind time or build upon what has never been, only mend what you can't bear to stay broken.

You still see it in dreams sometimes, lost children in royal hanfu sharing a stolen nectarine, crabs spilling over your fingers and a boy searching for pink slippers buoyed away from the shore. Now there are two strangers in the twilight, red eyes and red hair and the echo of waves crashing on the sea cliffs. You don't know where you stand in each other's lives, but to you he is still in essence,  _Judar_ : pale fire rising out of the ocean, a hailstorm in a volcano, rough, smirk-accompanied tugs on your hair.

"Judar-chan, do you remember? When we were kids, we'd throw peaches at each other."

He casts you a long, appraising look. "You still talk too much, Old Hag."

There you stand, former magi and king vessel. There are no more dungeons to conquer.

Your heart sinks at the thought. Because now he might leave for good and there's no telling if he'll ever come back, or if he'll choose to forget you. Knowing Judar, there's an eighty per cent chance…

"Heh, what's this? You've gotten all sorts of ugly now. Makes you look even older."

"Mmm…I'm fine. Don't worry."

"Yeah," he concedes, "you're way stronger than you used to be, runt. Doubt being empress was number one on your list of things to do, but at least you weren't a total disaster."

It's not a compliment. Judar never gives those.

(Judar isn't too hard to read, after all.)

"Hey, one of these days, drop by for tea?"

"You know I hate tea."

"You should try it. Alibaba-chan didn't like that stuff at first but then…"

Judar gives you _that_  look. That sort of frightened grimace whenever you're about to burst into tears. But you're done with crying. You're not that kid anymore.

"I'd have thought you two crybabies would end up together," he scoffs.

"Hey, I'm the crybaby? Me? Who's the one who broke down in front of Sinbad?"

"Those were fake tears, Old Hag! Heh, can't believe you fell for it! Was I  _that_ good?"

"Well, sorry for caring!"

And then, because this is Judar, and you really miss him, and  _this is Judar—_

"So, Judar-chan, want me to save some peaches for you?"

He shrugs.

" 'Kay."

* * *

Judar is a boy of memories, too.

Maybe that's one of his special abilities. His visits, sporadic as they are, trigger recollection upon recollection of the past. Such as, the story of how you accidentally dropped your sister's glass orchid when you were six. Or how you nearly gave Ka Koubun a heart attack by jumping off a tree at nine years old and could have died if Judar hadn't conjured a blast of wind to break your fall. (After a good scolding and a two-week ban from the gardens, you realized that suicidal moves aren't exactly the proper way to master kung-fu.) And then there was that day when you were stupid enough to convince Alibaba that you could dance on a floating ice shelf. (You slipped.)

Those were the silly things. There were sad parts too. Things you hated, things you were scared of, things you couldn't do. Things you had to do. Things you were forced to.

_Things like brainwashing._

Confronting Sinbad feels like lighting a bonfire and walking right though it on bare feet. But you know what revenge does. You saw what it did to Hakuryuu. You don't want that. You won't let Sindria steal anything from you anymore.

You march straight into the International Alliance conference and wait for the insults to begin. Two quick turns, and in the space between curtain and paneled glass, you hear snippets of conversation drifting in through a door left slightly ajar. You press your head to the wall and hold your breath.

"Impossible! That frail waif of a girl cannot possibly be Kou's empress!"

"Why not?" questions another voice, younger and sharper than the first. "You saw her clothes. She has to be the one."

"No, no. Whoever seeks to rule Kou must first tame its inherent darkness. That woman we saw is a mere child who has not swallowed up enough."

You grit your teeth and hurry to the meeting hall. Fury lends wings to your feet and color to your cheeks and your heart imagines cliff-diving. They're wrong, they're wrong. You're not a child, you're not weak. You're—

 _"You're Kougyoku_ ," Alibaba had said, a declaration, a command, a fight, at a time you wanted so desperately to be someone else.

You are not blessed with pure blood, and without face paint you are not pretty, but you're no longer that weak and stupid girl who can do nothing. Not anymore, and never again _._

_"Knock 'em down, Old Hag!"_

Hours of target practice with dancing water spikes come to the forefront; now your stance is straighter, your head held higher and the anxious shivering of your thighs is gone. This is the pride of someone who balances an empire on toes of flesh and unthawing fingers.

_Why, hello again, Sinbad. Still busy rehearsing how to manipulate your so-called friends? Well. Let's see who gets the last laugh this time._

The herald announces your presence. Before you stands the king of the gray world, radiant purple from the tips of his hair to his dazzling robes. There are no whirlpools or tornadoes to block your view.

Beside you are your fellow dissenters, Mu Alexius and Yamato Takehiro. Kina's ruler, Reim's general, enemies once upon a time. Strong, capable, born leaders. Yet it is you who stands in the middle, you who wedges the first crack into the Alliance's power. You, the little girl who played make-believe in the dark; you who should not speak and should not be here — you step forward to let words of peace tumble off your lips.

 _Sorry_ ,  _but Kou is free and you cannot hold us down any longer. I forgive you and I forget you and this is final._

In this moment you finally understand why Vinea chose you. Dragon of sorrow, blue eyes and chinks in her scales, and the weight of the thousand empty fathoms she ruled over.  _You will be queen someday_ , she prophesied at the gates of her abode.  _You have proved yourself worthy._

(Because even long ago, she knew the waves would submerge you and that after the drowning stained your eyes blue you would claw your way out.)

There's the tiniest of smiles on your face now, and it breaks and it grows and you finally breathe.

You exit the room with a vivid memory of Sinbad's astonished face.

* * *

_When you fall, you fall deepest. And when you rise, the water parts for you one last time. There is space for a breath. You say goodbye. And it never leaves you again._

Alibaba's dagger lies in the empty space where a bearded old man with blue skin and a navel ring vanished into thin air. The dagger is just that: a dagger. It is not long and black with an eight-point star engraved on its handle. It does not smell of ashes.

He clasps a bloody palm on your shoulder. "We survived war. We can do it again."

"You and your revolutions." You shake your head.

The first thing you need is a flask of water. The next thing is a map. An  _updated_  one, preferably with markers indicating where cornfields have transformed into rice paddies overnight. The rukh have upset the balance of the world, and those who cannot adapt will be left behind. With hailstorms coming in the middle of summer, you're in a race against time to put a roof over everyone's head. It's harder without time-space distorting powers, or impromptu rainforest production, but you'll manage.

It would take an eternity to fix this mess. But everyone pitches in. Even — and you can scarcely believe it — Judar helps (granted just for the first couple of weeks, but still,  _Judar helps_ ), zipping around the palace to haul in emergency reports or hold down stacks of books as Hakuryuu digs through mountains of paperwork. After that he can stand no more, and you put him in charge of the servants in the east wing (not your smartest move by far). He gladly accepts the chance to terrorize the kitchen staff, stuffing himself with grilled crabsticks or century eggs. It's almost comical how after three years he's suddenly so interested in food.

The highlight of your day is now catching Judar badmouthing Alibaba the moment he sees anything vegetable-based within yards from his side of the table.

"I'll never get used to living like this. No magi, no nothing." His voice is gruff from days of non-stop carpet rides. You suspect travel is his way of rediscovering his freedom in a world unfettered by Al Thamen.

"You still have a little power left, right?"

"A bit," he winces.

With all the construction going on, you barely hear him.

"You can dance to the beat of hammers over here," Judar complains.

Your eyes narrow. "And  _you_  need to find a new hobby. Stealing food doesn't count."

"And risk my ears exploding when Tattoo-Face wails about how expensive peaches cost? No thank you! I don't know why you haven't fed him to the crocodiles for all that shrieking. It's not like the half-dozen or so I get every week can make that much of a dent in the national budget!"

"You mean the half-dozen every  _day_."

He smirks fondly, rolls over, and before you realize it, falls asleep.

You're a little bit envious. You haven't had a proper beauty nap in two months.

For better or worse, the world has changed and you have been a part of it. You try to be the voice of reason, try to help reconcile these countries you would have fought without a second thought just a few years before. You designate Magnostadt as temporary headquarters while Rakushou is in ruins. Day by day more rubble is cleared, and you see the beauty of patched up buildings and riff raffs in what Alibaba terms the 'messy process of founding a country."

Aladdin and Kouha team up to supervise the distribution of salvageable equipment from Fanfan's warehouses. Hakuryuu assembles teams of a dozen people each to survey the borders while Koumei oversees the restoration of the courtyard complex. There are dozens of blueprints scattered on his desk, and you're stuck with two loud-mouthed dudes with zero talent in etching lines on the map.

One day, when everything returns to normal, you are going on a vacation.

You doubt that's bound to happen anytime soon when you have half a palace and half the world to reconstruct.

* * *

Sinbad is gone. There is peace for now.

And Alibaba, you later find out, is  _not getting married_.

 _Repeat._  He. Is. Not. Marrying. Morgiana.

Huh.

You must have misheard it. You weren't paying attention, Hakuei offered to cook dinner for four days in a row and her obsession with sugar might have messed with your head, he wasn't even talking to you, he was—

"She had feelings for Hakuryuu all along! How could I have been so oblivious? I saw it during the battle. The one she looked for when the last statue fell…it wasn't me."

So she broke his heart. Except you know from experience that the look on Alibaba's face isn't one of heartbreak. Disappointment, perhaps? Regret? You have to know. So you clench your fists and brace yourself to ask the one question that's been nagging at your heart these past months.

"Do you love her?"

He doesn't answer right away.

(Of course he doesn't. What were you expecting?)

"A long time ago, I thought she might be the one for me, but…I was being a fool all this time! I should have known, I should have…what is wrong with me? Even Aladdin knew!"

"Hey, it's okay. Don't be too hard on yourself. It's not your fault, Alibaba-chan," you say, to calm him down—to cheer him up — and sort of to confirm things, because you still can't wrap your head around the news.

_He's not marrying her? Whaaaat ? How is that supposed to make any sense?_

"I wish she had told me about Hakuryuu's proposal years ago."

You need to clear your throat. (And your head, and your ears, and maybe your heart and who knows what else.) You think you might have the answer.

_I think she was a bit lost, like me._

_I think she was a little scared._

_I think, she didn't want to lose either of you._

"Maybe she had to figure things out for herself."

He lies down on the grass, folding his hands behind his head. "You'd think a hundred years would have made me wiser about these matters. But I guess there's still so much to learn."

He's right. You all have a long way to go. You and him and Hakuryuu and Judar and Morgiana and Aladdin, you have a whole new world and a whole lot of new things to do.

And this is one of them.

"Alibaba-chan?"

"Hm?"

"Remember back in Balbadd palace, when we first met? That was what—five years ago? I was so mad I wanted to punch you in the face."

"You did?"

"I—I was furious. You were countering all my arguments so well, and I just lost my temper. Who would have thought we'd become friends one day?"

" _Just_ friends _?"_

"Um, allies, too? Colleagues? Topnotch garland-designers? Number one rivals at tuna-eating contests? Judar's least favorite ex-metal vessel users?"

"Come on, you know how Judar is! 'Least favorite' is an understatement. You should have seen the look on his face when he found out from Mother Dragon that he'd be stuck with me for two whole years."

His face is twisted in a pout —  _did he pick that up from Judar too_ — but his eyes are clearer now. The frustration is gone; in its place is a soft nostalgic glow and it tugs at some piece of your soul that wants to paint his smiles forever.

"You know, when you said I was the one person you couldn't kill, when I saw how hard you were fighting the brainwashing because you wanted to save me, I thought of Cassim. That's why he pushed me away when we were kids; he forced me to go with the soldiers to give me a chance. The one person besides my mom that I miss the most and I lost him. When I saw the chains of the rukh around you, I was so scared. I thought I'd have to watch you die too, and I couldn't bear that. It felt like…like I was going to break. I…I—"

His voice chokes up with emotion, and a tear slips down the corner of his eye.

"Cassim would be proud of you, if he were here."

"I hope so."

"Ne, Kougyoku?"

"Hm?"

"You don't have any urgent matters to attend to tomorrow, right?

"Um, no. Hakuryuu and I finalized the revised map of the world yesterday.

"So you can take a break from work?

"Uh…yeah? W-why the sudden question?

"Let's go somewhere.

"Somewhere?

"Let's visit the ocean. Or some of the towns. Even the market, if you want. Wha'dya think? Just you and me, let's ditch the guards and go on an adventure."

Your eyes meet. Fire and war and warmth and faith shuttle in between.

_What more could you ask for?_

"Well, before I consider your offer, I have a few conditions."

"And these are?"

"No one dies."

"No one dies."

"No spiders involved."

"Right."

"No ridiculous pranks."

"Wait a second, only Judar does those to you! If you're still mad at me for suggesting there were cockroach legs in your soup—"

"And that's it."

"You're coming with me?"

"No."

" _No?_ Why not? I promise I won't do anything weird! And I…uh…I won't embarrass you in front of a crowd if that's what you're afraid of. Please?"

And then you smirk, because you're tired of being the clueless one and a flustered Alibaba is kinda fun to watch. It took you four years, two wars, and a lifetime, and you've realized by now that your story doesn't have to be a fairytale, doesn't have to get perfect endings or brilliant executions or whatever romantic stuff is made of. In the end, all you ever wanted was someone worth fighting for.

"Nope," you repeat. "I'm not going with you. We're going  _together._ "

* * *

_The first time you met, you were enemies._

_The fifth time, you were almost married._

_The seventh time, you fell in love._


End file.
